


Fireworks

by 221b_hound



Series: Captains of Industry [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, New Year's Eve, Rock and Roll, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-19 12:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5967283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New Year's Eve in Melbourne, Australia. Last year turned our rather well for Sherlock Holmes, IT consultant, and John Watson, barista. Next year is going to be even better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Market, To Market

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I've been away so long! Lots of paying work and getting [The Adventure of the Colonial Boy](https://narrellemharris.wordpress.com/my-books/the-adventure-of-the-colonial-boy/) ready for publication has kept me from all my fanfic. So this New Year's tale is a bit late. Forgive me?
> 
> This story will have a few short chapters - short to give me a chance to post more regularly. Still got more of that happily paying freelance work coming in. :D
> 
> EDIT: [Here are some pictures of the Queen Vic Markets.](http://captainsofjohnlock.tumblr.com/post/139091619638/at-the-start-of-the-captains-of-industry-story)

The ripe scent of fresh produce competes with the ripe scent of the people shopping at the Queen Vic Markets. Sherlock can feel the hairs on his arms trying to retract. He thinks his actual skin is trying to retract as well. _Too many people._

But he stands between John and the jostling crowd while John selects tomatoes, herbs and Portobello mushrooms, then a box of organic cherries and five perfect lemons. He does this because, although John has not commented on it, and is intent on ignoring it, John’s skin and hair are also trying to retract into his body to put distance between himself and all these people.

John has been limping, although there is no reason for it. Well, no reason but the wash of memory of Afghanistan, and a marketplace bomb that left a scar across his calf.

John has learned to deal with crowds. Melbourne’s no Kandahar. He doesn’t have panic attacks any more, or feel the need to flee the press of bodies and earthy scents of the stalls. He hasn’t for years. But even when he doesn’t know he’s bothered, his body seems to remember, even if only faintly.

John’s body relaxes when Sherlock stands at his back, between his body’s memory of fear and pain, and its innocent echo in this really very good-humoured crowd.

When he’s done, John stows fruit, vegetables and herbs in a hessian bag that already contains sustainably grown salmon and succulent king prawns. He glances over his shoulder at Sherlock’s pinched face, seizes his hand and valiantly rescues his beloved.

‘We’re done. Let’s get this marinading.’

Sherlock, happy to have his turn at being rescued, holds John’s hand but stays resolutely at John’s back, a physical and psychological barrier, until he is dragged out into the December sunshine. 

The last day of December, in fact. Sherlock would almost be sorry to see 2015 go, except that 2016 has even greater things in store.


	2. Begging For It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New Year's Eve Schedule, part one: Ignore the nasty neighbour. Unpack the shopping. Discuss facial hair. Prepare dinner. Beg for it.

The tram on Elizabeth Street out the front of the markets will go right round the corner to North Melbourne, but Sherlock’s skin is crawling at the idea of squeezing onto a packed tram. But the bag is unwieldy for a long walk. John seems fine now he’s out of the reminiscent scent of earthy farm produce and sweaty humanity, but his left hand flexes periodically.

Sherlock orders an Uber. John begins to protest.

‘Don’t make me travel under the armpits of a summer tram huddle, John. I beg you.’

‘You beg me?’

‘When we get to your place, certainly.’

John laughs and they get the Uber car home.

Their new neighbour who lives in the house with the plaque 'Milverton' on the brickwork – who may or may not have heard their delicious outdoor panty sex on Christmas morning – regards them sourly over his round spectacles as they open the front gate.

‘Your girlfriend’s got company,’ says the man, slyly, like he’s revealing a dirty secret.

‘Mr Charles,’ says John grimly, with a tight nod, ‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen who’s been leaving dog turds in the mailbox, have you?’

‘I’m afraid not. I’m keeping an eye out.’

‘You do that,’ John mutters, opening the door.

On the way to the kitchen, Sherlock says, ‘You know he’s the one doing it.’

‘Of course I know it’s him,’ says John with a sigh, ‘But I’ve got to catch him at it. Unless you’ve got something I can take to the cops.’

Sherlock is almost certain it’s Charles, but that’s based on the mole-like little shit’s tells and not on any courtroom-standard evidence. He’s still thinking how best to get that. John shrugs. ‘We’re moving out soon, and Irene’s already looking. Won’t have to put up with him much longer.’

John is pulling out the morning’s forage, thumping it on the counter. Sherlock comes up behind him (hums a bit, loud enough to hear; he doesn’t want to exacerbate John’s low-key anxiety by sneaking up on him) and wraps his arms around John’s waist. Tucks his face into John’s neck.

John sighs and relaxes into Sherlock’s arms and against his chest.

‘I can’t wait,’ he says, and there’s yearning in his voice.

Sherlock kisses John’s cheek. He pulls John more closely against his chest and nuzzles lightly at the left end of John’s moustache. Pulls the waxed tip of it between his lips and hums again, pleased at the texture and taste of it.

John giggles, the movement pulling his moustache free of Sherlock’s mouth. ‘You and my moustache,’ he says fondly.

‘Have you ever thought what you’d look like with a beard?’

‘Not much. Bet you have.’

‘Mmm.’ The noise is non-committal but John laughs again.

‘You like my moustache in all your most sensitive places. Bet you’ve thought about what that’d be like with a beard. My beard. All over your spine. Nestling between your legs. Brushing over your cock. Pushed into your arsecheeks while I tongue-fuck you. Yeah? Yeah, baby. You know it.’

The firming erection pressed into John’s backside is a dead giveaway. No deduction required.

‘Might grow one for you for Valentine’s Day, hey?’

The next ‘hmmm’ is a good deal more enthusiastic, and lacking words because Sherlock is sucking a love bite into John’s neck. John wriggles his bum against Sherlock’s cock.

‘Not in the kitchen,’ says John, as Sherlock reaches round to undo the button of John’s jeans.

‘No sex in the public areas,’ notes Sherlock with an aggrieved sigh. John can feel Sherlock’s lips curve into a smile against the nape of his neck. ‘Not while Irene’s at home at any rate. In her room,’ he adds, ‘With her girlfriend.

‘WE can have sex in all the public areas you like when we’re in our new place,’ John assures him, laughing. He begins to separate the shopping on the counter, even with Sherlock plastered along his back like a limpet. ‘Let me get the salmon marinading and in the fridge. Then we can…’

‘Let me beg for it.’

John laughs, managing to be both giddy and sultry. ‘Yeah, beautiful. I’ll let you beg.’

It’s odds on which of them is going to beg by the time the salmon is in a dish with garlic, lemon juice, dill and dukkah. John’s pants are way too tight, but Sherlock is humping gently against his hip, so it’s running 50-50 right now.

John washes his hands, rubbing them with the used lemons first to diminish the fish smell, then with scented soap they keep by the sink.

‘Come on, you,’ says John, pulling Sherlock close, hands on his hips then sliding around to Sherlock’s bum, kneading it. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’

‘Please John,’ murmurs Sherlock in gleefully staged begging, ‘Please take me to bed. Please suck my cock. Please let me fuck you. Or please fuck me. Please let us be naked and rubbing our dicks together while I bite your nipples. Please please please tie me to the bed and tease me with a dildo. Please let me put on the purple panties and eat me out through the silk. Please please please…’

‘Holy fuck,’ groans John. He spins Sherlock around, pushes him in the small of the back towards the bedroom. Sherlock pauses and thrusts his bum back towards John in wanton invitation. John squeezes the offered arse, slides his hand between Sherlock’s legs and fondles his balls and cock. Sherlock laughs breathlessly, grabs John’s hand from the front, presses it against his erection, lets go and scoots off at a run.

‘Please John!’ he shouts, still laughing, while John launches in pursuit. He’s already half naked by the time John grabs him around the waist and flings him on the bed.

Between them, they manage about half of Sherlock’s list before they sprawl, spent and exhausted and blissed out, on the bed. No blankets or sheets – much too hot for that. Just naked skin to naked skin and happy laughter.

‘Can’t wait to be living with you,’ says John, his voice full of excited certainty this time.

Sherlock finds the strength to push onto his side and then over John so he can kiss him. He kisses him some more. Little light kisses all over his mouth and chin and nose. He kisses the moustache, even. John lifts a hand to pat Sherlock’s bottom, and keeps his lips puckered for his shower of adoring kisses.

When Sherlock subsides onto John’s chest with a contented hum, John keeps patting his bum.

‘It’s never been like this for me before, you know. This… energy.’ He kisses Sherlock’s brow. ‘I never get tired of your company. I never need a break. I love being with you all the time. I don’t feel used up or burnt out or anything. Regenerated. Yeah. That’s it. I feel regenerated when I’m with you. It’s being apart from you that wears me out.’

Sherlock nips John’s collarbone and makes a mock-disgruntled sound, and John only laughs again. ‘Yes, Sherlock, I’m properly fucked, no worries there. I mean…’

‘I know what you mean,’ says Sherlock, kissing the spot better. He brushes his nose against the spot too. Eskimo kiss. ‘I know exactly what you mean. I find most people exhausting. You, on the other hand, are…’ He stretches to kiss John’s mouth again. ‘Inspiring.’

John holds Sherlock’s face in his hands. He pushes his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, which has sprung out of its severe lines to tumble in curls over his forehead. ‘Inspiring. Yeah. That’s exactly it.’ His smile is soft and wondering.

‘I may mess up from time to time,’ Sherlock confesses, ‘I don’t have much in the way of good examples of happy couples to work from. We’ll have to be our own example.’

‘We can do that.’ John kisses his forehead.

‘My parents are terrible examples. They were miserable together and they made us miserable.’

John hugs him, nudges his nose into Sherlock’s hair. His parents are pretty standard issue. Not wildly happy. Not bitterly miserable. Just… trundling along. Sherlock’s parents, as he understands it, aren’t much chop at all.

Sherlock snuggles close to John. ‘Whirlwind romances aren’t meant to be stable, but surely that depends on the nature of the whirlwind. Two people who belong together don’t waste time.’

‘No,’ agrees John, ‘We don’t.’

‘I can’t wait to live with you in our own place,’ says Sherlock, ‘And have sex with you in our kitchen. I measured the height of the kitchen island. It will be perfect.’

‘Unhygienic,’ laughs John.

‘We can use a tablecloth on it,’ says Sherlock airily. ‘I want to lay you out on it like a banquet and lick every inch of you.’

John wriggles his hips, nudging his cock’s unsuccessful attempt to show interest again so soon. ‘That’s one vote for yes,’ he says.

Sherlock nudges his own stirring prick against John’s hip. ‘That’s two.’

Giggling, they fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a house in North Melbourne which really is called 'Milverton'. I've put pics on the [ Captains of Johnlock tumblr](http://captainsofjohnlock.tumblr.com/post/139091252778/the-house-in-north-melbourne-that-i-use-as-a).
> 
> If you're interested, I have [Captains of Industry art etc over here](http://www.redbubble.com/people/narrelleharris/collections/412681-captains-of-industry).


	3. Poison Pencil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Showers, lunch, hot chocolate. That's the good part. The Poison Pen letter written in pencil is the awful part. But the awful part is Evidence and Sherlock can do something with that.

After their post-coital nap, John and Sherlock take a shower together. Sherlock, as always, is half grateful to be clean and half wistful, because he likes being smeared with John’s scent. He likes John being smeared with him. But now they’re both clean and cool and wet, and they’ve made the water tepid to combat the heat. John finishes sluicing Sherlock’s back down with a face washer, and then amuses himself by cupping Sherlock’s ripe bum in both hands and watching the waterfall it makes. Sherlock, his forehead leaning against his cross arms on the wall, starts to laugh. John joins him. They end up giggling under the cascade.

Irene bangs on the bathroom door.

‘Other people live in this house, John Watson,’ she declares in her trans-Atlantic accent, all snarky amusement.

John slaps Sherlock’s bum playfully, and is distracted from answering because of the jiggle and spray of water. Sherlock is prepared to ignore Irene indefinitely, but she bangs on the door again.

John kisses Sherlock’s spine. ‘Auction Rooms for lunch?’ he suggests.

A short while later, they emerge, towels wrapped around their waists, dressing gowns on. Irene doesn’t say a word. She lets an arched eyebrow do all the talking. John twists his ends of his moustache into shape in insouciant reply. Sherlock shakes his head, spraying both John and Irene with droplets from his now unruly hair. Irene flicks him in the ear with a highly polished fingernail then ushers her girlfriend, Kate, into the bathroom ahead of her.

Over lunch – John has the Persian lentil tagine with dukkah-rolled feta while Sherlock feeds choice bits of his confit duck salad to his boyfriend – they talk about their future. The bee boxes Sherlock’s ordered for their rooftop hive. John’s plans to make his own pasta and where to source the flour. A weekend at Daylesford spa soon, or at least a trip to Bendigo for Sherlock’s birthday, even though he doesn’t do birthdays, but he might make an exception this year for John, to take John out of town.

It’s still a few weeks till settlement on the flat, but Sherlock’s about worn out his welcome at the Adelphi. He’s thinking the Blackman art hotel down St Kilda Road, but then, The Lindrum is just on Wellington Parade, and it’s all 1900s brick and timber, mood lighting and a billiards room. He wants to find out if John plays billiards. Any road, he’d like to see John bending over the table while taking a shot. He’d like to bend over with him, to help line up the cue. He’d like to…

Sherlock’s shifting a bit in his chair, thinking about that. John grins lasciviously at him. John can’t read his mind, but he can sure as hell read that expression.

Lunch done, they drop in at Mork Chocolate Brew House over the road. John has a thing for the campfire hot chocolate – the ritual of turning up the inverted glass of smoke and pouring in the rich dark chocolate and swirling the artisanal cube of toasted marshmallow along the sides of the glass afterwards. It tastes like bonfire night.

John also has a thing for gazing at Sherlock’s face while Sherlock devours the hot/cold layered dark chocolate and orange zest custard, those lips sucking at the spoon, that tongue licking against the edge of the glass. That impish smile when Sherlock watches him watching.

It’s genuinely a wonder that they haven’t had sex everywhere they’ve ever been.

To be fair, they’ve had sex at a reasonable number of places they have been. The pop-up garden where the New Year’s Eve party is being held tonight, for one. And there was that blow job in the middle of the night in the Temple of the Winds Rotunda in Fitzroy Gardens. As they were leaving (pink-faced, giggling), a startled couple out for a moonlit walk asked about the weird noises they’d heard in the dark. John blamed it on the possums.

It’s a name that’s sticking.

‘Home, Possum?’ John suggests. Sherlock’s ears go charmingly pink, and he grins. They walk back to John’s place holding hands.

All hell has broken loose at John’s place.

Kate is dead white except for red blotches on her cheeks, and she’s shaking from a combination of terror, distress and rage. Irene’s stalking back and forth, unable to comfort Kate except with a storm of vitriol of her own.

Irene’s expression could kill a man at ten paces, and if she gets within two of the vicious little motherfucker giving them aggro with that fucking letter in the fucking letterbox, she’ll show the arsehole fucking _feral_ , she’s fucking well going to scoop out his fucking eyes, _mate_ , with her own fucking fingernails, the utter fucking cunt, and making him fucking _eat them._

Sherlock is twofold fascinated by Irene’s tight, clipped delivery of this blazing cold tirade. That is an Australian accent. Broad. Twangy. Country accent. Perhaps rural Queensland, putting it together with previous observations. Irene Adler’s a faux ex-American, no doubt for a sense of sophistication that admitting she’s from Toowoomba or Bundaberg won’t get her.

But that part is not as important as the letter that set her off.

‘Let me see.’

‘Why the fuck should I?’

‘Let him,’ urges John in a calming voice, ‘If it’s that fuck knuckle next door like we think it is, Sherlock might be able to prove it.’

Irene points to the kitchen table. When Sherlock and John go to look at it, they don’t wonder that Irene doesn’t want to touch it.

 _Torn from a 5mm grid graph exercise book. Ragged edge. Block letters to disguise the hand. Pencil pressed heavily into the paper – written in fury. Heavy lines, dark. Typical of a 6B graphite pencil – perhaps a common Pelikan Columbia or a Staedtler. Lyra, perhaps_.

( _Shut up._ He was bored one day. He has a notebook full of samples of pencils in grades 9B to 9H, different manufacturers. _Shut up_.)

A smear of paint on the back, ah, no – pollen. Yellow.

Sherlock sniffs it.

_Wattle. And there, a short, curly, white hair. Dog hair. Maltese Terrier Oh. Oh, oh, oh. That yappy thing they never see but hear sometimes. Dog. Dog shit in the letter box. Wattle tree in the yard. Man’s a graphic designer; profession for a graph book and a 6B pencil, certainly. Designs packaging for pharmaceuticals.Badly._

(So okay, no, he didn’t precisely go through Mr Charles’s rubbish, but his wheelie bin lid wasn’t properly closed and he saw the rejected designs in it. _Shut up._ )

 _Hence 6B pencils, hence wattle, hence dog hair_. _And the words. The wording. Threats. Rape threats, threats of violence. To... holy **hell**. With a… and a…. Good Christ, this is vile… and here. Here we go._

“No false witness, you whores and sodomites. Good fences won’t keep you from Hell. Be on your guard!”

Sherlock grins at them all. ‘Call the police, Ms Adler. We’ve _**got**_ the careless little prick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if any other terms need explaining.
> 
>  
> 
> [Auction Rooms Cafe on Captains of Johnlock ](http://captainsofjohnlock.tumblr.com/post/139158179118/auction-rooms-cafe)  
> [Mork Chocolate Brew House](http://captainsofjohnlock.tumblr.com/post/139158241268/to-the-left-sherlocks-chocolate-and-custard)
> 
>  
> 
> Mork's campfire hot chocolate  
> 
> 
> The Hotel Lindrum  
> 
> 
> Temple of the Winds rotunda in Fitzroy Gardens  
> 
> 
> A wheelie bin (also known by the brand name, Sulo bin)  
> 
> 
> Wattle blossom.  
> 


	4. Out With the Old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Dimmock and lawyer Mary Morstan enjoy letting Augustus Charles know what he's in for. A dog is rescued. Pashing occurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Dragonsally for her assistance with the legal ramifications of Charles's nasty little vendetta. Mistakes are mine, though.
> 
> WARNING: In the endnotes there's a picture of a kookaburra eating a snake. In case you're freaked out by snakes and don't want to stumble across that shit without warning.
> 
> ute = pick up truck (see the end for a picture).  
> VB= Victoria Bitter, a common beer.  
> Bacardi Breezer = an awful alcopop. Just awful.  
> banana bender = someone from Queensland

Irene Adler calls the police. Sherlock Holmes calls his new… he’s not sure what the word is yet. Mary Morstan, anyway. New client or new source of interesting things, potentially his lawyer, and perhaps even new friend. It’s yet to be determined. He calls her, anyway, with a precis of events.

Mary Morstan gets to North Melbourne before the police do. She parks her motorbike in front of John and Irene’s place, pulls off her helmet and shakes her hair free. She sees a man peering at her from the house next door. _The Poison Pen Writer and Turd Mailer._

The awful man has a moon-like, pock-marked face and eyes that peer intensely through a pair of round spectacles. He’d pass for someone unremarkable, except for the pinched look to his mouth and eyes that give him a malevolent air. He looks like a snake with a severe case of schadenfreude.

‘Is there trouble?’ asks the oily fucker with a veneer of concerned neighbourliness, ‘I thought I heard someone crying.’

Mary gives him a bright smile. ‘Did you? I’d better look into that, then.’

And if Augustus Charles is a snake, Mary Morstan is, in Australian parlance, the kookaburra. Mr Charles may soon be metaphorically flown to a great height, banged against a tree repeatedly and then dropped from a height.

When Mary sweeps into the kitchen, she asks rapid, pointed questions, looks at the letter (not touching it) while Sherlock takes her through the evidence he’s gleaned from it. She checks that the incidents of the dog turds in the mail have been reported (they have – Irene has been on a warpath). She beams at Kate and Irene, John and Sherlock, like they’re a collective Cinderella and she’s a Fairy Godmother about to set them up with a gold-plated monarchy.

Irene has stopped swearing and her Queensland accent has vanished without a trace. She’s calm and cool as ice again now, with her hand on Kate’s shoulder. Kate’s tears have abated in favour of a set jaw and an expression that reminds Mary of a very pissed off emu.

Sherlock looks smug and cheerful, though John’s still bristling. John would very much like to go next door and confront the foul Mr Fucking Augustus Fucking Charles in Milverton Fucking House and tear a few verbal strips off him. He calms when Sherlock wraps his fingers around John’s wrist. It’s abrupt. One minute the barista is seething, the next, his chin jerks up, his breathing steadies and he’s back to being a little stick of dynamite without the lit fuse.

‘Your neighbour really is the epitome of a complete bag of dicks,’ says Mary, her smile happy and dangerous, ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’

A knock at the door turns out to be Detective Dimmock, their old friend from Moriarty’s stalking, along with a constable.

‘Mary,’ Dimmock nods at her, ‘How’s James?’ James, the ex-cop boyfriend. Mary Morstan probably knows a lot of cops through him and through her work.

‘Fantastic,’ says Mary cheerfully, ‘Well, enough of the chit-chat. About this bloke next door.’

Dimmock inspects the letter. Sherlock goes over the clues he’s derived from it once more. Dimmock, impressed, bags the thing. ‘What a little beauty,’ he says with smug cheer.

Police work is not meant to be a floor show, but there’s something unavoidable about it. Dimmock tries to get the inhabitants of the household to stay put, but fuck that for a joke. Instead, Irene and Kate lean against their front door, John and Sherlock lounge by the front gate. Mary stands by her motorbike, her gauntlets in one hand like she’s about to challenge the Complete Bag of Dicks to a duel.

Dimmock knocks on the door of Milverton House. Augustus Charles answers it. The Innocent Face he’s plastered on wouldn’t fool a drunk granny.

‘Mr Augustus Charles, also known as Augie Charles?’ asks Dimmock

For a second, it looks like Charles is going to run. He’s not built for it. It’ll be a short and unrewarding chase, or rather, waddle. Charles abandons the notion before it’s even taken hold.

‘Yes,’ he says wearily and warily.

‘You’ve been writing threatening letters to your neighbours. Don’t bother...’ this as Charles opens his mouth to protest, ‘We’ve got dog hairs on the letter, wattle pollen from the tree here, and a 6B pencil that can be matched to one in your house, I guarantee you. The block writing won’t help you. Handwriting experts can spot a disguised hand a mile off.’ Dimmock doesn’t actually know the last bit for sure, but he figures it never hurts to lay it on thick.

Mr Charles’s squinty eyes dart from neighbour to neighbour and he’s sweating hard. ‘I didn’t do any harm,’ he says defensively, ‘It’s just a stupid letter. I was pissed off at the noise. You should hear them. Rutting like animals. Men together. Women, together. It’s disgusting.’

‘You’d have been better to make a noise complaint,’ says Dimmock mildly, thinking that he’s going to go home tonight and make as much of a racket as he can with his own boyfriend, ‘What you’ve actually done is threaten to inflict serious injury – “the minute you fall asleep I’ll be in to slit your throat” – which is a contravention of section 21 of the Crimes Act. The rape threats fall very neatly under the sexual harassment laws.’

While Charles is looking increasingly panicky, Mary steps away from her motorbike, slaps her gauntlets into one hand and adds, ‘Don’t forget the tort of assault…’

‘But I never…!’

‘In which the assault need not yet have taken place, but the intended victim has a reasonable apprehension that the threat will be carried out.’ She doesn’t look at Kate, but Irene wraps her arms around her girlfriend and hugs her tight.

Mary continues, ‘There’s also the issue of trespass for the delivery of your Maltese terrier’s stools in the mailbox. And I very much look forward to applying for victim compensation due to emotional distress and psychological harm.’

She beams at him like he’s her new best friend who owes her a lot of money.

Dimmock and the constable watch her performance with a sardonically raised eyebrow.

‘You’ll have to wait your turn, Morstan,’ he says and turns back to Mr Charles, ‘As we also have the matter of a series of threatening letters to MediBox Graphics, including a delivery of dog excrement. Mr Charles, I’m placing you under arrest…’

The arrest goes as per the usual formalities, except that a dog starts to bark inside Milverton House and Charles starts to hurl abuse at it. ‘Shut up, you stupid fucking dog. Shut up. Shut the fuck up. Stupid fucking dog, shitting all over the place, shedding all over things. All over that fucking letter. Stupid fucking dog.’

‘Who’s going to look after the dog?’ Mary asks.

‘Little fucker can look after itself,’ snarls Charles, who really is 101 kinds of arsehole, ‘It can fucking die. I only have it because my ex-wife didn’t take it with her. She called it Appledore. What kind of fucking name is _Appledore_?’

Dimmock is thinking maybe there’ll be animal cruelty charges they can lay too, only he’d really rather there wasn't. That's horrible, that stuff, people being mean to animals. He sends the constable in to fetch the dog, and the lad returns with a scruffy looking Maltese terrier. The terrier is wriggling and wagging its tail and looks like it’s half in love with his rescuer already. He’s grubby but looks otherwise unharmed. The constable looks unhappy.

‘What are we going to do with it, sir?’

‘Animal services, I guess,’ says Dimmock.

‘I can take him if you like,’ offers Mary, ‘James and I have a Maltese too. Her name’s Cherry. Well, Pondicherry, but it’s a bit of a mouthful.’

‘Any objections?’ Dimmock asks Charles, but only because he has to.

‘Take him and welcome to the little shit.’

The constable hands the terrier on his lead over to Mary, and he and Dimmock take Augustus Charles – still muttering filthy, vicious things – away for processing.

The neighbours and their lawyer retire to the kitchen for a calming glass of chardonnay. Appledore flops on Mary’s feet and looks adoringly up at her while she scratches his ears. Mary calls her boyfriend to come collect the little fellow in the flash green Holden ute.

A second bottle – a Verdelho – has been opened when James Sholto arrives. He’s brought Cherry with him. Cherry and Appledore greet each other with a bit of arse-sniffing then settle down like old friends to jointly beg for the cheese and crackers which have made an appearance. Mary feeds them hommos on a bit of carrot.

‘Cherry and Apple,’ remarks Mary with an indulgent smile at the two white dogs, ‘Sounds like they belong together.’

An hour later, Mary’s bike has been loaded onto the back of the ute – she’s had too many glasses of wine to ride home.

Mary gives her card to Irene and Kate. ‘You can consider me engaged on the case, if you like. I’ll even charge you mates’ rates for it. It’ll be a pleasure to prosecute. And you,’ Mary turns to Sherlock, ‘Good job on the letter. Forensics will make it all official. I’ll come see you next week about another case, yeah?’

Then she takes both dogs in her lap – she doesn’t seem to care at all that Appledore needs a bath and a brush and is making her clothes filthy – and she and James ride off into the afternoon.

Back in the kitchen, the housemates and their darlings raise another glass.

‘You’re amazing,’ says John, with eyes only for Sherlock, ‘Absolutely amazing. The Baker Street Agency is going to be a huge success.’

Sherlock is preening almost as much as John is preening on his behalf, and then their congratulatory kiss turns into slightly drunk pashing, and Kate thinks this is such a good idea (she is also a bit drunk) she sits on Irene’s lap and they pash for a while too. It’s like a party for teenagers, all the unabashed pashing going on, only minus the Bacardi Breezers and six-packs of VB.

Then Irene notices the time. They have a party to attend. She claims the bathroom by shoving Kate towards it and giving John a sharply raised eyebrow. She also gives Sherlock one of her secret smiles, but he just waves at her. She doesn’t intimidate him any more with those smiles. Everything is armour, with Irene. It’s battledress, and now he knows her secret (she’s not some mysterious woman of the world, she’s just a banana-bender with pretensions) she doesn’t bother him anymore.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ says Sherlock. He helps John pack up the food for the night and they Uber it over to the Adelphi while Sherlock calls to book a few nights at the Lindrum.

‘You could stay with me until we can move into the new place,’ says John, threading his fingers between Sherlock’s on the seat between them.

‘I want to play pool with you in the Lindrum snooker room,’ says Sherlock huskily.

‘Does it have to be the Lindrum?’ John asks, voice low. He knows exactly what Sherlock is thinking.

‘Yes,’ says Sherlock.

‘Okay. A few nights. For pool. Or snooker. Or. Whatever.’

‘And then your place. Until we get the keys...’

‘…To our place,’ Sherlock agrees.

Augustus Charles has been a brief glitch in 2015, but he’s dealt with. Onward to 2016! Sherlock can’t wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kookaburras eat snakes. They kill them by dropping them from heights and/or bashing them on rocks and trees until dead and squishily edible. I've looked for the least horrific image of this I can find.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Speaking of which: an evil look from an emu.  
>   
> There's [ an even more evil looking one here.](https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1308/5182164556_14c3dc292e_b.jpg)
> 
> Yes. Even our native birds are fucking terrifying.
> 
> This here is a Holden Ute. A nice new model, very flash, in lime green.  
> 
> 
> Appledore Towers is of course the name of Milverton's house in the original story. Pondicherry Lodge was the name of the Sholto residence in The Sign of Four.


	5. In With the New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude in a studio. Then a party full of Aussie songs in the pop-up garden, a realisation for Sherlock, 360 degrees of fireworks, and joy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of the songs at the end of this are from the 70s and 80s, and would have been part of Aussie Greg Lestrade's formative rock years. They would have seen them on a music show called Countdown that promoted a lot of Australian music. At this point I dare you to youtube Molly Meldrum, an Australian musical icon who hosted the show. Australians love Molly. His interview with Prince Charles and references to the Prince's "mum" is an Aussie classic.

The last hours of 2015 are perfect.

John and Sherlock walk around their city, enjoying the buzz of the good-natured crowds while simultaneously avoiding most of them by walking through all the alleyways and between-the-buildings shortcuts that Sherlock knows. It is a hobby of his to have an exact knowledge of Melbourne, just as he has an exact knowledge of London as it was when he last lived there. He knows every little bar and café, every little tailor and jeweller, the places where the hidden Banksies haven’t been painted over by zealous taggers or council workers.

He takes John to the alley full of _koan_ s written as street signs, and then to Centreway Arcade to see if John notices the secret message. He has to give him a clue – ‘Look up, john’ and he smiles as he watches John squint at the wall of letters, trying to spell it out. Some of the letters are obscured but he gets most of it before Sherlock gives him the whole quote.

_We live in a society that sets an inordinate value on consumer goods and services._

‘Ironic, for a wall in a shopping arcade,’ says John. His moustache pulls up on one side, with the tilted smile underneath it, and Sherlock wants to crowd John into a corner and kiss him, to feel that smile on his mouth and neck.

They backtrack to 8-bit for a burger – the Portobello mushroom burger is the draw – and they eat it at John’s studio. Well, eating the burger is _one_ of the things they do. They mostly lie squished together on the sofa, shoes off, half undressed, kissing. John praises Sherlock for being so incredibly clever, and thinks that the workbook Sherlock did on different pencils because he was bored isn’t weird, only brilliant.

Sherlock is so thrilled that John thinks it’s brilliant when he knows for a fact it _is_ kind of weird, that he gives John a slow, lazy blow job. God, he loves John’s cock in his mouth. He loves the weight of it, and the girth, the heat and smoothness, the silky skin over the hard erectile tissue. He loves the hot-salt-stickiness of John’s pre-come. He loves John’s huffs of happy, aroused laughter, and the way John moans, and smooths his fingers through Sherlock’s slicked-back hair, and spreads his legs wider for Sherlock to kiss his balls, and Sherlock loves how John calls him pretty names, and dirty names, until John can’t make proper words any more. He loves John’s hips jerking helplessly under him, and he loves swallowing John’s come (John’s cells inside him) and feeling John subside after, boneless as a well-fucked boyfriend should be, giggling and telling Sherlock he’s amazing.

Sherlock loves it, too, when John unbuttons Sherlock’s trousers and tugs them down. When John urges Sherlock to sit astride John’s hips, and then slow-wanks him until he comes all over John’s chest.

Sherlock assumes that eventually they’ll stop having sex twice a day whenever they have a day off together (and daily most other days) and that’s okay, as long as they still get this after-sex bit. Lying together, affectionate and happy, talking of their individual pasts, their shared future.

They are still snuggled together, discussing the design for Sherlock’s business cards, because the agency should definitely have business cards, when the 9pm fireworks go off for the kids. They finally rise, sponge themselves down a bit and get dressed for the party at the Pop-Up Patch.

The pop-up garden is full of gardeners and their friends, and they all know each other. Greg’s invited some of his old band mates and Mycroft has friends from his book group and some of the small businesses he’s helped to incubate with his advice. John's marinaded salmon and prawns are grilled to perfection on the communal barbecue, along with the king prawns. Others have brought satay chicken wings; lamb, feta and mint sausages, or beef and beetroot; plain old steaks for some. Haloumi slices and giant field mushrooms with a separate hotplate to keep it from the meat.  Fresh rolls, a dozen salads. Greg has made pastries and Mycroft is making sure everyone's glasses are full. 

A sound system has been set up and it’s been agreed – perhaps by some kind of Australian osmosis – that tonight it’s going to be wall to wall classic Aussie hits. Icehouse’s _Great Southern Land_ , Goanna belting out _Solid Rock_ , an anthem about injustices against indigenous Australia that remains pertinent. That leads into the Oil's _Beds Are Burning_ and then Yothu Yindi’s _Treaty_ before it switches back to the 70s: Sherbet singing _Howzat_ (a song conflating love and cricket). Daryl Braithwaite's _The Horses_ plays next, and nobody knows what it's about, but nobody cares. INXS comes along. Kylie Minogue and Renee Geyer. The Divinyls and Chrissie Amphlett segue into Moving Pictures’ _What About Me?_ which has everyone pulling tragic faces to convey how hard their lives are, and then it’s John Paul Young and _Yesterday’s Hero_. These are Aussie rock songs from Greg's formative years; songs he played with the band he was in when he met Mycroft. He and his old mates are going off like a frog in a sock, dancing wildly and singing at the top of their lungs.

Sherlock and John are mildly bemused with the enthusiastic singalong. Mycroft, who hears Greg singing these songs in the shower and around the house, and has learned to play several of them on the piano, just grins in his quiet, happy way.

Suddenly it’s Skyhooks and _You Just Like Me Cos I’m Good in Bed_. Greg is dancing salaciously with Mycroft.

The Mycroft that Sherlock knew fifteen years ago, back in England, would have been horrified by the public display. Mortified and probably ashamed.

This Mycroft, here and now, is smiling and holding Greg’s waist while Greg dances shamelessly. This Mycroft’s eyes are soft as they look into Greg’s eyes, which never leave him. Greg’s a flirty harlot, but only with Mycroft, and Mycroft adores being the sole object of Greg’s attention. He dances more subtly but it’s no less sensuous, with a hand on Greg’s waist, the other on his hip.

The old Mycroft smiled only rarely, and like it hurt him to do so. The Mycroft he was wouldn't know what to do with Mycroft now. 

Sherlock likes Mycroft now. As the song ends, Greg and Mycroft kiss, giggling while they do so, and the rings they’ve bought each other glint on their fingers. Old Mycroft was brittle and manipulative and disapproving of everything he saw. This Mycroft is still reserved and self-contained, but he’s also soft, happy, and relaxed.

Sherlock realises he was mistaken before, when he told John that he had no role models for how this worked. His parents are useless, of course, but there in front of him is the best example of how to succeed at whirlwind romances.

The next song up is Hush’s _Glad All Over_ and even those who’ve never heard it join in with the _I’m feeling_ – CLAP, CLAP – _glad all over, baby I’m_ – CLAP, CLAP – _glad all over, yes I’m_ – CLAP, CLAP – _glad all over that you’re mine!_

Then it’s the countdown to midnight. Sherlock and John grin at each other in anticipation and as soon as the hour’s struck and the first burst of fireworks goes up, they’re kissing like it’s the first time and like it’s the best time and like it’s the kiss that made the fireworks burst into the sky overhead and all around. Fountains of fire and light are pouring in a wheel around them, 360 degrees, from the Arts Centre spire and the fractal shapes of Federation Square, up and down the Yarra River, from barges, from bridges, from rooftops.

John has turned in Sherlock’s arms and is leaning against Sherlock’s chest while Sherlock wraps him in his arms. Sherlock had wondered if John would have a negative association with the explosions and smell of gunpowder and the bright lights, but apparently not.

As the last sparks fade and the tens of thousands of people in the Alexandra Gardens, the Yarra foreshore, filling Princes Bridge and Southbank and balconies all over town, all through the city, cheer, Sherlock presses his nose to John’s ear.

‘You like fireworks.’

‘Yeah,’ says John, ‘They’re pretty. Like… flowers.’

‘I wasn’t sure you would,’ confesses Sherlock, ‘And I know today’s been at times... difficult.’

John kisses Sherlock’s jaw. ‘Tell me something true,’ he says.

Sherlock kisses John’s ear. ‘You like fireworks precisely because they are foolish. All that noise and flashing light and the smell of smoke should by rights make you uncomfortable, but to make it better, you overlay your experiences with pretty lights and the way people laugh and find joy in what could be traumatic. You choose the brightness. You choose…joy.’

‘You’re amazing, Sherlock. _Amazing_. Fireworks in human form.’ John is looking at Sherlock like he’s made of the concentrated, constituent parts of rapture, made of sparkles and champagne, rendered in eyes as deep and changeable as the sea, in beauty, rich and rare.

And then they finish filling the first minutes of 2016 with love, with kissing, and with joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many links for you.
> 
> 8 Bit on Swanston Street. I love their mushroom burger. Mmmmm.  
> 
> 
> These are [the koans in the alley](http://www.narrellemharris.com/creativity/melbourne-literary-word-and-way/)
> 
> This is the [Centreway Arcade Hidden Message](http://www.narrellemharris.com/apps/melbourne-literary-secret-message-in-centreway-arcade/)
> 
> I once saw in NYE from the pop-up garden. [This is the not-very-good video I took of the experience.](https://youtu.be/VD4r1Q5ier4)
> 
> Yes, I have equated Sherlock's lovely looks with words from the Australian national anthem, which isn't itself a pretty song, but that's a pretty line. (Beauty, rich and rare, for those who don't know.)
> 
> And here is some Aussie music for you:
> 
> Icehouse [Great Southern Land](https://youtu.be/3mkidP2OUCk)  
> Goanna [ Solid Rock](https://youtu.be/cbASq3FMf70)  
> Midnight Oil [ Beds Are Burning](https://youtu.be/ejorQVy3m8E)  
> Yothu Yindi’s [ Treaty ](https://youtu.be/S7cbkxn4G8U)  
> Sherbet [Howzat ](https://youtu.be/8EmSanSFXEM)  
> Daryl Braithwaite [The Horses](https://youtu.be/lnigc08J6FI)  
> Moving Pictures [ What About Me?](https://youtu.be/OzQKECQgjW8)  
> John Paul Young [Yesterday’s Hero.](https://youtu.be/KVSEiveFY7g) (the clip shows Melbourne in 1975!)  
> Skyhooks [You Just Like Me Cos I’m Good in Bed. ](https://youtu.be/sfLNjDSfkcY)  
> Hush [Glad All Over ](https://youtu.be/LxZ_afzFJ1A)


End file.
